


love, or run

by postcardmystery



Category: due South
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-16
Updated: 2012-10-16
Packaged: 2017-11-16 09:58:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/538243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/postcardmystery/pseuds/postcardmystery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You hittin’ on me, Frase?” says Ray, the grin passing over his face fast as a thunderstorm breaking, something truer and hotter, burning like a lighter-click, behind his eyes, and Fraser smiles, small, says, “That would be deeply unusual of me, wouldn’t it?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	love, or run

The snow tastes different.

This is not the first thing Fraser notices about Chicago, but it is the most important.

(He thinks.)

 

 

His partner never stops moving. At first, it looks random, scatter-gun flinching and fluttering and  _fuck off_ read in the twist of his wrist.

Later, it becomes its own language, chaos theory writ bare. He’s easier to translate than a wolf, and yet. Humans bring their own sort of ambiguity. Humans have shoulders that fall into tense lines. Humans have words, which spill from their lips, lips which confess everything, but—

—Fraser doesn’t know what he was expecting from Chicago. It certainly wasn’t this.

 

 

“You believe in justice,” says Ray, apropos of nothing, 3am outside some filthy warehouse, a stake-out that never quite seems to end.

“Indeed,” says Fraser, because he’s unsure what he’s supposed to offer.

Ray frowns, which tells Fraser that this was a question, and a question Fraser neglected to answer, says, “How?”

There are so many words on the tip of Fraser’s tongue. Democracy, and the right to freedom, and eternal fight to ensure that good people don’t have to be afraid. 

There are so many words on the tip of Fraser’s tongue, which does not at all explain why he says, “Men like you, Ray.”

“You hittin’ on me, Frase?” says Ray, the grin passing over his face fast as a thunderstorm breaking, something truer and hotter, burning like a lighter-click, behind his eyes, and Fraser smiles, small, says, “That would be deeply unusual of me, wouldn’t it?”

 

 

Snow tastes different in Chicago, but, it turns out, it’s still snow.

 

 

Ray’s hands are a language unto themselves, a law unto themselves, but they close around Fraser’s wrist, dig into flesh and Fraser draws in a deep, deep, breath, lets Ray’s hands speak the words that need to be said in their own, inimitable, style.

 

 

“You really weren’t hittin’ on me before?” says Ray, his head burrowed into the pillow, and Fraser looks up to where Ray is holding his hand above his head, opening and closing his fingers, quick and sharp and illuminated starkly by moonlight, closes his eyes, opens them, turns to Ray and says, “Well, you  _are_ always telling me I’m a freak.”

 

 

Chicago has snow. There: an answer to a question never asked. (Except.)


End file.
